Mihály's smile was cutting as he placed a single hand on the plated door frame. There was no shift at first, but a shiver passed over and through Csilla, deep and cool and picking at the oldest-laid blessings of the church. An answering glow ringed him in silver, pure as morning light and a painful contrast to his grim expression.

The Incarnate sucked in a breath. "You are supposed to be dead."

"Well it's a very good thing I'm not," Mihály said, pushing Tamas to stumble over the threshold. "I've just answered your prayers. This is the man who organized the fall of the city."

Csilla waited for Tamas to speak up and say that Mihály was the man whose hands did the dirty work. He remained quiet, which was worse.

"And you think this buys you pardon?" The Incarnate shook his head and raised his hand.

Freshly drawn blades gleamed behind their backs as the guards strode in and surrounded them.

Mihály's eyes found hers, widened and wild, but there was nothing she could do. She couldn't let herself be seen by Abe. Guilty and sick, she turned and fled back through the small door as the Incarnate's order echoed.

"Arrest them both."

34

Ilan

Night brought with it a fresh fall of silence as Ilan escorted Csilla to the cells holding the prisoners. She'd said that when the Incarnate touched her, he hadn't known her. It didn't seem possible that whatever Tamas had done could silence the voice of god, but either Csilla was lying, or the Incarnate was. One of those seemed more likely than the other.

Tamas sat cross-legged on the floor of his cell, unbothered by his lack of over clothing or the dingy surroundings. Perhaps his long association with evil burned him from the inside, for he didn't even shiver at the cold that seeped up through Ilan's boots. For so many nights the image of their enemy had just been a wisp of candle smoke in the dark, and now he was here. The placidity of the man's lined face unnerved him. He should be begging. He would beg.

"The Inquisitor." Tamas's mouth worked awkwardly as he spoke, jaw swollen and yellowing with a bruise in the shape of Mihály's fist.

Csilla stepped right to the bars of the cell, an odd note of pity on her face. Of course she could dredge up sympathy for an enemy.

"Ah," Tamas continued, tilting his chin. "And the mercy girl. Here to stand for me? I tried to save you, you know. How many times did I ask you to leave?"

Only Ilan could see her tremble. "You did. And for that I'll bring you water and a blanket, so you don't suffer before you die. I'll pray; death is not the worst thing that can happen if you confess and accept your punishment. But I can't defend you."

His eyes narrowed, but he nodded, approving. "Perhaps you'll survive the coming shadow after all."

Ilan stepped to her side, resisting the urge to put a steadying hand on her back. "Is that what you wanted, then? Demons can't be controlled. You've only damned yourself."

"Perhaps I have. Perhaps I'm truly serving the divine, more than anyone else here in this overbuilt cage of stone and gold has." He dragged his knuckles over the rusted bars in emphasis.

"How would death serve Them?" Csilla's voice was cut with anger.

"Any chance we had at true faith was stolen when Arany left her mark on the world. Just a little bit of stolen divinity, vague enough that the church could twist it to suit its own needs."

"You may have broken Silgard, but you didn't win." She nodded, firm. "There are still priests who can fight."

Not many, and not well. And not when they didn't know where an enemy would turn up next. Not when the next body it took could be someone dear.

"There's nothing to win, child. Everything, the false safety you cling to, that warmonger on his throne, everything but that blood in the dirt is a lie. Go see what's left for yourself."

That was what they wanted to do. It sent a curl of wrongness to him that Tamas would want that too.

"You say I hate the church," he continued. "I hate the church, but I love the faith. Asten left us to Shadow and demons, and pretending They didn't isn't going to bring Them back. They never wanted this, never wanted us. Humanity has to stand alone through the long darkness to prove ourselves and come out purified on the other side. The seal was holding us back, not saving us. Has there been a single miracle in all the time we've kept the doctrine?"

"One," Ilan spoke up before Csilla. "There was one."

Tamas sat back, mouth coy. "Indeed."

Now Ilan leaned heavy on the bars. "Where did you send the demon?"

Tamas shrugged. "What makes you think I didn't banish it now that our work is done?"

"If we can't, I know you can't. Who did you send it to? How many of your people are in Silgard?"

"A handful here, more elsewhere. Those of us who have seen enough to know how we've gone astray. Silgard's walls are a blindfold."

"I don't want your reasons. I want names and numbers. I want to know how we can stop this." Ilan reached forward but was stopped by Csilla's hand on his arm.

"We already have him here. You don't have to hurt him further. He's already going to die."

"And I'll give you one part for free," Tamas said, shifting so shadows fell across his face. "You can't stop it."

A dull clang of a foot hitting metal ricocheted, and Csilla stiffened. "Mihály." She gave another warning look at Ilan before hurrying to the other cell. He watched as she went to her knees and reached between the bars towards the angel tied in the dark and felt a dull, unwelcome ache.

Easier to think about hurting the man before him. He wrapped a hand around the bar and leaned forward again. "You'll never be pardoned, but confessing now will save your soul."

The answering laugh was hollow. "And if I say my soul is fine, you have no way to verify."

It was true and caustic.

"At least confess that the Izir had nothing to do with it, and they'll let him go. You can do that much." That was almost a lie; Ilan wasn't sure of it at all.

Tamas shook his head. "He didn't plan to kill, but he had everything to do with it."

There was an answering slam of a heel against metal and a grunt from farther down, Csilla jumping back with soothing words.

"Were you also the one who burned the church? More ritual? Or was that simple distraction?" Tamas had known where they were and that Csilla had to be alone. The man inclined his head, a teacher's quiet praise of a clever student.

"Shall I confess something you don't know, Inquisitor? Something that might help you understand why I did what I did? Come closer. I'd like to see your face when you hear, and Misi broke my glasses."

Good for him.

"There is nothing that would justify what you did." He would know. Ilan had spent his whole life weighing one thing against another, finding the purest path. There was no justice that could balance the current suffering.

"I tried to kill Csilla to save her from all this," he said. "Tried to poison her as surely as your church tried to kill Misi. But she walked away."

Ilan didn't trust himself to speak as a slow rage spread, crimson licking the edges of his vision. "Tried to save yourself so she wouldn't get close enough to figure out what you were doing."

The man gave a little laugh. "It was kill her or use her to kill. Two sides of a coin. Do you think she'll like remembering cutting that woman's throat? But it doesn't matter. She lived. And so did the Varga woman."